Checkmate
by Musingsage
Summary: They pretended, lied and fooled everyone into believing an end of their conflict. How can you forgive your bitterest enemy? They are beyond forgiveness. Death has become the only option. Warning: Character death, and implied death. Don't like, don't read, it's that simple.


A/N: Just a plot bunny that I wrote down a few months ago and decided to post as it was just collecting cyber dust.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, nor see the point of these notes, but whatever.

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Only the sounds of harsh breathing and a faint trickling sound broke the oppressive silence. Blue eyes gazed about the scene with a pang of guilt and regret. What happened never should have been necessary, but events played against him. He'd extended his hand in friendship and trust, only to receive betrayal and deceit. The blue eyes closed in a vain attempt to block out the pain. Each time he breathed the pain throbbed in his chest.

The trickling sound stopped.

Two sorrowful eyes opened to gaze on the corpse of his opponent. Across the hallway, his foe's purple eyes stared disbelievingly at the ceiling, as if it held the answers. Perhaps the ceiling did and only the dead could hear them. The eyes turned to his foes chest, the gaping wound no longer leaked blood. At last his foes' blood stopped flowing and forming a bright red pool around his chest. The copper tang of blood filled the hallway. Nothing around the survivor had remained clean of blood. Both his and his' foes splattered the walls, indistinguishable. The carnage made him sick, if he could throw up, or if he had anything to throw up, it would have made him. Strange to think, that after all the atrocities he witnessed in the past three hundred years, only this would make him want to throw up. After all, he'd seen worse, and had been responsible for worse.

The eyes returned to his foes corpse. Through his harsh breathing, he managed to whisper 'sorry'. He truly felt sorry for his foe. Perhaps more sorry that it ended this way, than that he killed the other Nation. What would the other Nations say once they discovered what happened? Somehow, he didn't care. What happened, happened because they blinded themselves to the truth. A conflict that lasted nearly eighty years finally came to an end. All the other Nations assumed the Cold War ended with the fall of the Soviet Union. No, the Cold War truly ended today with the death of Russia.

From his position against the opposing wall, America inched himself up into a sitting position. At long last he began to take in just how badly Russia managed to injure him. His right foot looked so mangled he'd have to have it amputated. The rest of the leg looked little better. Surprisingly, his left leg seemed to have escaped damage. Almost like fate wanted to tell him something.

A bitter laugh burst from his cracked lips. Within seconds the laughter turned into a hacking cough. When he looked down at his chest, he realized he'd just coughed up blood. Well, that explained the pain in his lungs. Each breath felt like a struggle. Several ribs must be broken. Bone stuck out of his left elbow. How he hadn't passed out yet baffled the young nation. His head felt like someone attacked him with a sledge hammer. Somewhere in the hallway lay his shattered glasses, at least the glass had remained out his eyes. America didn't feel like looking for them, he could barely move anyway, much less look for a broken pair of glasses amongst the wreckage of the hallway.

Taking shallow breaths, America wondered if anyone would come looking for them. He wondered why anyone hadn't come sooner. Between him and Russia, they left a bloody trail all the way down from the Elevator. In the distance a church bell rang out the hour. Ah, he understood now. They were all still stuck in the conference room. Didn't anyone wonder why he and Russia disappeared to? Hadn't they heard the gun fire?

Alone, without the breath to call for help, America contemplated Russia's corpse and how everything ended up like this. When they first met, back in 1803 when he first sent an Ambassador to the Russian Court, they got along decently. They weren't friends, but neither were they enemies. For the next hundred years they interacted rarely, save the occasions when America bothered to attend the World Conference. That all changed with onset of the Russian Revolution. When they spoke again in 1933, Russia had changed. Perhaps, America mused, he never changed, but revealed the truth about himself. Perhaps America had been the one to change, he couldn't tell anymore. If any Nation could be called clinically insane, it was Russia. A stab of pity hit America's heart, perhaps it was just a stab of pain; both hurt the same amount.

Aside from North Korea, America never pitied a Nation more than Russia. While he grew up at England's loving side, Russia suffered under Tartar and General Winter. From England, he inherited the idea of governance elected by the people. From Tartar and the Czars, Russia inherited a tendency towards totalitarian rule. He had Canada, Russia had Ukraine and Belarus. Likely, Russia lost most of his sanity to the situations he grew up in. The start of the Soviet Union merely finished the job. America had failed to recognize that until two years ago. When he realized the truth, and finally saw through the deceptions and lies.

Darkness began to creep into his vision as his injured limbs finally went numb. His breathing slowed, he could feel it. The other Nations would never know the truth; they'd never understand what happened. They'd never know how much they owed him. A smile cracked his lips, where anyone to see, they'd say it looked manic, almost insane. To think, he went around as the self-proclaimed hero, yet his greatest moment would go untold and misunderstood. England would approve of the irony. If he ever found out.

"ALFRED!" A shrill voice yelled as the darkness grew. Someone knelt by his side, in the distance he hears exclamations and cries of disbelief. All of it sounds so very far away. Someone's shaking his arm. Or, at least he thinks someone is. Distantly he hears sobs and wails of sorrow. He thinks several Nations just fainted. Did the hallway truly look that bad? He thought so, but couldn't remember anymore.

"Don't you dare die on us Al," a different voice than the one the yelled his name. The voice reminds him of maple syrup. Why would the voice remind him of maple syrup and polar bears? He can no longer remember.

The darkness has grown complete by this point. He thinks he just died, but the pain remains strong. It's receding, but it's still there. A burning sensation hits his chest, leg and arm. Why are they burning him? Are they burning him?

"It's going to be alright Al, you'll see." The maple syrup voice sobs from somewhere far away. Who's Al? Is he Al? He can't remember.

_Mattie._ The thought surfaces from somewhere. He might have said it out loud, he can't say. His last thought is of toy soldiers that he thinks mean a lot to him, but can't remember why. In the darkness, the pain vanishes and he feels like someone just cut him free of a tremendous weight. Giddily, Alfred F. Jones floated away, but tears rolled silently down his checks. He didn't want to leave, but couldn't help himself.

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A/N: One of the more depressing fanfics I've written. A plot bunny, like I said. Any and all reviews, except flames, are appreciated. It's always to know what readers think, if you bothered to read till the end that is. For those unfamiliar with human names, Al or Alfred F. Jones=America and Mattie=Canada.

Oh, if you think the image is creepy, it's supposed to be. I hope it looks like a bloddy hand-print over the flags since that's what it's supposed to be.


End file.
